


the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Great Gatsby AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired."-F. Scott Fitzgerald,The  Great Gatsby-“I just—” Steve waved a hand out over the water, into the dark—“just missing someone.”She looked at him for a moment. This was not really her area of expertise. “I see,” she said.“You see that—that green light? Way out?” Steve asked suddenly. She looked up; he was pointing out over the water to the other side of the bay.There was a green light, blinking, but it took her a few moments to find it. How long had Steve been looking, to see it out there?“He lives out there,” Steve told her. “My—the man I fell in love with. A long time ago.”





	the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired

**Author's Note:**

> _The Great Gatsby_ AU! Also it's modern day. Don't ask why, I don't know. See if you can spot who all the characters are. :)
> 
> Art was done by the incomparable [Curtis](http://shushisandwiches.tumblr.com/), who was enthusiastic and accommodating and talented and I'm really glad I got to work with him.
> 
> As always, I am pretty much always available on [Tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/).

The house, Natasha thought, was a little ostentatious.

For a moment, she stood looking up at it: the observatory on the west wing as if the builder had envisioned watching the moonrise; the Corinthian columns lining the front porch; the large white flagstones set in lush green grass leading up to the steps; the fountain bubbling gently in the curve of the drive, its surface dotted with floating lit candles.

It was…pretty. In a way. Stately. Well-kept.

Natasha’d walked from her own house, not realizing just how large the estate was—she was new in West Egg—and had underestimated how breezy it was going to be. She popped open her gold sequined clutch, nudging aside her cell phone so that she could check the position of her flapper headband in the small mirror sewn into the purse’s lining. The big white cameo sat at her temple, her hair a bit ruffled under the lace band. Fiddling with it one-handed, she managed to smooth down the strays, and snapped the clutch shut once more.

There were two men running a valet near the door. Walking up the gravel drive, Natasha passed luxury car after luxury car: BMW, Jaguar, Jaguar, Ferrari, Bentley, Maclaren, Aston Martin, Bentley. Next to these, her black patent pumps were looking a little dusty, so she ducked behind a Hummer limo and balanced on one foot, polishing the toes with the sole of a stocking before sliding them back on and continuing.

“A party,” Steve had said. “To welcome you to the neighborhood.”

This hadn’t been exactly what she’d expected.

The front doors were flung open wide. Into the deepening darkness, warm yellow light spilled, refracted, crystallized by a huge chandelier in the foyer. A man in a black tailed tuxedo stood in the doorway, hands folded in front of him.

“Good evening,” he said as Natasha ascended the steps. “Welcome.”

“Thank you.” She fiddled with the gold fringe on her dress, making sure it lay flat. “Steve…?”

Glancing into the house, the man raised an eyebrow. “I think he’s probably on the upper balcony,” he told her, then gestured with one hand to the Queen Anne staircase. The steps were a bit too deep; she’d have to be careful not to trip on her way up. “Up the stairs, down the corridor. You can’t miss it.”

Natasha thanked the butler and followed his directions. There was a couple fooling around on the staircase, giggling, sequins in scalloped patterns. One of the pair might have been Daniel Craig.

The carpet was thick and royal blue, probably would be a nightmare to clean vomit out of. A woman with a tray offered Natasha a glass of champagne as she stepped out onto the marble-floored balcony. Around her, people sparkled and laughed, lit by strings of Edison bulbs.

Walking slow, Natasha made her way around the edge of the balcony, along the wall until it joined with the banister and then following that until she found herself the perfect vantage point. Below her, the grounds of the Rogers estate unfolded, crowded, chattering. There was a big band playing jazz, though she couldn’t see it; presumably the stage was under the upper balcony. Another bigger fountain bubbled; far away she could see the dock lit by torches.

Steve was leaning against the banister beside her, a glass of champagne held idly between two fingers. “You look great,” he said, though he didn’t even look at her.

“Thanks,” she replied, resting her elbows on the banister too and wondering for a moment what would happen if she dropped her glass off the balcony: would anyone get hit? Would it hurt? “Great party.”

“Oh.” He looked around as if he hadn’t even realized there was a party at his own house. There was a crease between his eyebrows, a frown deepening the lines around his cheeks. She’d only ever seen him smiling so far. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Was there a reason for the roaring twenties theme?”

Steve waved his champagne flute carelessly. “It’s no fun at all to go to a party this size with _no_ theme,” he explained. “I guess.”

They stood in silence for several moments, looking out over the estate and the water beyond. “So was that Daniel Craig I saw…?”

Snorting, Steve half-shrugged, his broad shoulders tightening his white tux jacket. “Maybe, yeah,” he said. “Could have been.”

Granted, Natasha was new around here, and she hadn’t known Steve very long; but somehow, she thought she might know him about as well as anyone else. And she wasn’t normally the type to ask people about their feelings—especially when they were so… _involved_ in those feelings—but Steve was still looking off into the distance, hadn’t turned away to even consider the revelry around him. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Yeah. I’m fine.”

Natasha nodded, taking a sip of her champagne. It was pretty nice, actually, not too sweet. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned out a little over the balcony, the breeze tugging at the feather in her headband. Spectating from above was…kind of cool. “Is that Rihanna?”

“I just—” Steve waved a hand out over the water, into the dark—“just missing someone.”

She looked at him for a moment. This was not really her area of expertise. “I see,” she said. Turning back to the crowd below, she squinted a little. It was too far to tell if it was Rihanna; but someone a few feet closer was almost certainly Diane Guerrero.

“You see that—that green light? Way out?” Steve asked suddenly. She looked up; he was pointing out over the water to the other side of the bay.

There was a green light, blinking, but it took her a few moments to find it. How long had Steve been looking, to see it out there?

“He lives out there,” Steve told her. “My—the man I fell in love with. A long time ago.”

“How long?” Natasha asked.

It seemed like the right thing to say, because Steve gave a long morose sigh and took a big sip of his champagne. “Two years,” Steve said. “Seven months. Twelve days.”

For a long moment, Natasha considered what to say before finally settling on nothing. If Steve wanted to continue, he would; and anyway, was that a long time, or no time at all?

“His name is Sam,” Steve said. The name came out of his mouth on a sigh, Steve’s eyes misting over as he propped his chin in one hand. “I joined the army, and he—I don’t know what he did, but—it wasn’t with me.”

Natasha looked at the side of his face. He was still frowning out at the light, his hair lit golden by the light from inside the house. “You’re still in love with him,” she said.

“Yes,” Steve said, immediately. “Yeah, I am.”

“Did you invite him to this party?”

“Yeah.” Natasha looked around at Steve; she hadn’t really been expecting that. Steve took another long sip of his champagne and finally looked away from the green light, down into his glass. “Do you think he’ll come tonight?”

“I…” Watching as Steve tipped his glass from one side to the other, the bubbles letting loose their hold on the glass, Natasha shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

Steve sighed low and long. “He’s married now,” he told her.

“Oh.”

He drained his glass and turned to set it on the banister on his other side. “Glad you could make it tonight, Natasha,” he said, straightening up. “Enjoy the party.”

Natasha turned back to look out over the party as he slipped away, around the edge of the balcony and back into the house. That green light went out—reappeared—went out. She wondered if this was how Steve felt, every time it went dark, like she had to hold her breath in case the light didn’t come back on.

A waiter passed, taking away the glass Steve had left behind. Far off in the deepening dark, the light blinked, steady. Before long, Natasha’s glass was empty too; and finally she took her eyes from the green light and turned to go back inside.

At the bottom of the stairs, two men stood together, looking around. One of them caught Natasha’s eye as she made to pass them. “Have you been here before?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I’m new in town,” she said. “Steve and I just met a couple weeks ago.” The man chewed on his lip, his hand tightening around the elbow of his partner. “I’m Natasha.”

The man hesitated a moment, his dark eyes tracing the swoop of the feather in her headband. “I’m Sam,” he said. He gestured to the tall man with him, still looking around, hands in the pockets of his sharp black suit. “This is my husband, Bucky.”

Bucky turned and smiled, holding his hand out for Natasha to shake. “Good to meet you,” he said. “You live…?”

“Just down the block.”

Sam nodded. “We’re across the water in East Egg,” he said. “I…used to know Steve. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

One of Bucky’s eyebrows ticked up, just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looked at Sam. Something caught his eye past his husband’s face, and he tipped his head, smirk growing into a grin. He took his hand from his pocket and used it to guide Sam’s knuckles to his lips. “I’ll be back in a minute, my love,” he said, “Nick from work is here, and I should say hello. Natasha—lovely to meet you.” He slipped behind Sam and vanished.

“He knows I hate Nick from work,” Sam explained. “So he tries to keep him away from me.”

“How sweet of him,” Natasha said. She wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say; but Sam nodded and smiled, so it couldn’t have been too wrong.

He was handsome, Sam, his smile friendly, his dark eyes warm and framed by long eyelashes. “He came here tonight,” Sam went on, his eyes cutting away from Natasha to look around the room thoughtfully. “Even though he knows about—about Steve and me.”

Curious, Natasha cocked her head. “What about Steve and you?”

Sam sighed. “Steve…was the one that got away,” he told her. “The one that _went_ away. And now he’s—he’s here, living here. But Bucky…” He looked at her. “You know, sometimes I stand on our dock across the water and look at this place and—” he swallowed—“and I’d have them both, if I could.”

Natasha wasn’t sure what to say to that. It didn’t sound so bad, she thought, if one was into that. Well, if one and one’s paramours were into that.

Luckily, before she could come up with something to say, Sam turned to look in the direction Bucky had gone. “Bucky knows that, and he’s here with me,” he said. He gave a little sigh, still looking at Bucky’s back, then shook himself and turned back to Natasha. “I’m sorry—here I am, talking about my love life, and you don’t even have a drink. Champagne?” He reached out and swiped a glass from a passing waiter’s tray.

“No, thanks.” She gestured toward the back of the house, where she could hear music. “I’m going to head that way and see if I can find the back lawn. There’s a bar set up out there.”

The back lawn was lovely, bustling, waiters passing here and there with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. Everything was sort of glittery, flowing water and sequins and glass all reflecting the sparkling lights strung among the trees. On stage was a full twenty-four-piece big band, dressed in navy tuxedos, the horns polished to a sharp gold, the drummers’ sticks and mallets wrapped with blue and white ribbons.

Skirting the crowd, Natasha eventually arrived at the bar, tended by three people in white shirts and black bowties. She stuffed a couple of dollars in the tip jar and took her bourbon, neat, and for a few minutes let herself be buffeted by the crowd, spectating. The liquid in her glass flashed amber, brass, copper under the lights, and soon enough she found herself back at the entrance to the house, a little chilly as the night began to draw down, ears beginning to itch in the dull roar of the crowd.

It was quieter in the house, fewer people milling around. With summer retreating and the last days of September so warm, it seemed that most people wanted to be outside.

Natasha was climbing the stairs, planning to head back onto the upper balcony, when a hand encircled her arm and pulled her to a stop near the banister. Steve’s voice was urgent when he whispered her name.

“Is—uh, is everything okay?” she asked, looking down at his hand where it cupped her elbow.

 “Did he say anything about me?” Steve hissed, leaning a little closer into her personal space than Natasha normally allowed.

“What?”

“ _Sam_.” Steve’s blue eyes are intense on her, searching her face. “I saw you talking to him before. Did he say anything about me?”

“Only that you used to know each other,” she said.

Steve sighed agitatedly, turning and leaning out over the banister as though looking for Sam. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”

“And that you haven’t seen each other in ages.” Natasha watched as Steve chewed at his mouth. Finally she held out her drink. “Have a sip of this—you look like you could use it.”

Barely looking at her, Steve took the glass and drained it. Only once he had done that did he turn and lean his hip against the railing. He looked at her for a moment and then down into the empty glass. “Thanks. I—sorry. I’ll get you a new one,” he said, though he didn’t make any move to head down to the bar. He swallowed. “Are you…having a good time?”

To be frank, she hadn’t been having much of a time at all. From below, the band struck up a new tune, something mournful and hopeful at the same time. Natasha thought she maybe should have known which song it was, but it was too muffled. “Yes,” she said. “This place is beautiful. The decorations…”

But Steve had stopped listening, his eyes trailing away over her shoulder, eyebrows drawing close together, a slightly lost look crossing his features. She had a suspicion of what he was looking at; and when she turned, she was right. Sam and Bucky were climbing the stairs toward them, both of them looking at Steve.

“Sam,” Steve breathed.

“Hi, Steve,” Sam said as he and Bucky neared them. Bucky was looking between his husband and Steve, his expression curiously detached as if he was merely a bystander. “It’s been a while.”

The moment stretched, gummy, Steve’s eyes desperate on Sam. Sam chewed on his lip, looking right back, and Natasha looked at Bucky, who stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to her.

“Did you get a drink after all?” he asked, leaning against the banister.

Snorting, Natasha leaned too and gestured to the glass in Steve’s hand. “I did,” she said, “But I ended up donating it to a good cause.”

Bucky laughed; Steve, a few feet away, glanced at him, just for a second, his expression spooked. “May I accompany you to get another? I’d like to see the band.” Natasha watched as he reached out to cup his hand around the back of Sam’s arm. “Would you like a drink?” he asked Sam. “Natasha and I are going for one. Give you two a chance to catch up.”

Holding up his half-full champagne glass, Sam shook his head; he looked, Natasha thought, wistful, in love. She just couldn’t tell with whom. “I’m going to stick with champagne,” he said. “Thanks, though.”

“And Steve?” Bucky asked, turning to him. “Anything for you?”

Steve blinked as if shocked by Bucky offering him anything, let alone speaking to him. “I—no, thanks. I think I’ll have champagne, too.”

Bucky nodded and proffered his arm for Natasha to take. “See you in a bit,” she said, and allowed herself to be led down the stairs and back out onto the lawn.

They paused just outside, looking out into the crowd of sparkling guests. “Lovely,” Bucky commented, and gestured left. “Shall we head that way?”

They passed the stage, the band now playing something more upbeat, jazzy and triumphant. Neither of them spoke until they were standing in front of the bar, ordering drinks; and then Natasha suggested a circuit around the lawn.

It was quieter the further they walked, cooler as they neared the dock. The air smelled of salt, of burning citronella. “We live out there,” Bucky told her, pointing toward the green light. “That light is at the end of our dock.”

Natasha nodded, pretending as if she hadn’t known that already. “How long have you lived there?”

Bucky sipped at his negroni. “I met Sam two years ago at a charity event down in Manhattan,” he said. “It was—love at first sight, I suppose, for me. He was—is—so beautiful. We got married last year. We’ve been living out there in East Egg ever since.”

For a few moments they just looked out over the water, the ocean breeze making the fringe of Natasha’s dress itch at the inside of her arm.

 “It didn’t take us long to find out who lived here,” Bucky said, jerking his head toward the estate. “Steve Rogers lives in a palace and donates to charities and probably sings to birds. That’s how good a man he is. And he and my husband have a history.” From the corner of her eye, Natasha looked at him; but he wasn’t frowning, didn’t seem bitter. It was a fact, and one that he didn’t seem to mind. “Sam was so nervous to come tonight. I don’t think he ever really got over Steve joining the army.”

They walked on, silent for a few moments. Lucy Liu paused in her conversation with a man so large he could be nothing but a professional athlete to smile and wave to Bucky. “She and Sam trade recipes every time we see each other,” he told Natasha. “She makes a mean potato salad.”

A little further on, they found a stone bench, protected under a weeping willow. It too faced the ocean. They sat, and Natasha put her gin gimlet on the bench next to her, arranging her skirt so the fringe didn’t scratch her too much. “Steve is a good person,” Natasha commented. “He’s—kind.”

“He treated Sam the way he deserves,” Bucky agreed. “Sometimes I think I’m not—not good enough, or smart enough, or—or just _enough_ for him. Sam, I mean.” He looked down into his glass. “Or Steve, come to think of it.”

Across the water, the green light went out—then on again—then out. “Are any of us really enough for anyone else?” she asked. What was it about this evening that had her speaking this way? She wasn’t, needless to say, an expert in matters of the heart, and nor did she really want to be. But something about tonight—the alcohol? The sparkle of a party from an era long gone? The green light?—was making her nostalgic for something.

Bucky looked up at her. His dark eyes were steady, thoughtful. “Let’s go back inside,” he said after a moment. “It’s getting cool.”

Following the path around the other side of the crowd from the way they’d come, they circled back to the house and in. Sam and Steve were no longer on the stairs, and together Bucky and Natasha set out to find them.

They walked, still arm-in-arm, through the lower level of the house: through a room filled with cut flowers in pinks and blues and yellows that made Bucky sneeze; through a room with a grand piano the size of a large car, a woman lying on it crooning, her hand draped over the shoulder of the woman playing a deeply soulful tune; through a room filled with the green-grey haze of cigar smoke.

Finally they found Steve and Sam spectating a nearly finished game of billiards in a lounge in the west wing, a long bar along one side of the room, cushioned booths along the other side in scalloped bowl shapes.

Sam snorted when he saw what Bucky was drinking. “Predictable,” he said, laughing when Bucky nudged him with an elbow. Sam nodded to Natasha. “Glad to see he didn’t ditch you.”

She shook her head. “He showed me the light at the end of your dock.” Beside her, she felt Steve inhale. “It was too dark to see anything else, though.”

“He loves that place,” Sam said, elbowing Bucky back. “Sometimes I ask if he wants to move—” Steve gave a soft desperate little hurt noise—“but he always tells me no.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Shall we play a game, Natasha?” When she nodded, he left his empty glass on the bar and placed a hand at her back, guiding her toward the table. “I’ll rack up; you can break.”

While Steve began collecting the balls and corralling them into the triangular rack, Natasha selected a cue and chalked its tip. He slid the frame into place and shook it until the eight ball’s number faced up; then he removed the rack with a flourish and gestured for her to begin while he picked a cue for himself.

It had been a few years since Natasha had played pool; but she still managed a respectable break shot. Bucky gave an impressed nod. He and Sam were still leaning against the bar, speaking so quietly that she couldn’t hear them even with only a few feet between them.

Steve, on the other hand, was not particularly good at pool. Mostly, he sent the balls careening across the green felt, marking the cue ball with blue chalk from each glancing blow of his cue. He seemed to choose shots that set him at an angle with his back to Sam and Bucky, who were now seated at the bar, sipping their drinks and spectating. While he wasn’t shooting, he leaned against the table and pretended to watch Natasha while actually watching Sam from the corner of his eye.

Natasha had sunk five of her seven striped balls when Sam finally put his drink down and slid off his stool with a smile from Bucky. “Steve,” Sam said.

Immediately, Steve jerked up from where he’d been leaning over the table, turning on his heel so fast he had to catch himself to keep from falling. “Yes?” he asked. “Sam—you’re, um, is everything—?”

Natasha perched on the edge of the table and glanced at Bucky, who was reclining against the bar, swirling the last of his negroni around the bottom of the glass absently, watching his husband advance on Steve with a thoughtful, relaxed expression.

“Steve,” Sam said again, stopping within a foot of Steve. From where she sat, Natasha could see Steve inhale, his nostrils flaring, chest rising. “Steve, you’ve got to quit looking at me like that.”

“I—” Steve licked his lips. “Like what?”

Sam grimaced. “Like you’re mourning over my _corpse_ , Steve.” He reached out with one hand, carefully and deliberately placing his hands at Steve’s waist while Steve stuttered.

“Sam.”

“Steve.” Sam’s thumbs were stroking over Steve’s jacket. “I’m not dead. You shouldn’t be in mourning.”

Coughing a little, his mouth hanging open, Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky raised his glass to them and took a sip; Steve’s eyebrows did a complicated thing and he turned back to Sam. “ _Sam_ ,” he said. “What—what the—”

While Steve continued to stammer, Sam smiled fondly at him; after a moment, he leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s mouth.

The moment stretched. Bucky was watching Sam and Steve, rapt, his empty glass resting against his knee. Finally, Sam rocked back. After a long second, Steve’s eyes opened.

“ _Sam_ ,” he said, his voice choked. Panic washed over his face, and he turned to look at Bucky so fast it looked like he tweaked his neck. “I—”

Bucky set aside his glass and got to his feet. Steve flinched, but Sam’s hands fisted in his jacket, holding him there. “What if,” Sam said, his voice soft, “what if you came home with us?”

Steve, mouth hanging open, looked at Bucky, who now stood just behind Sam, hand on his back. Sam rocked back on his heels, pressing the backs of his shoulders to Bucky’s chest, and then settled forward again, still holding on to Steve. “You love him?” Bucky asked.

“More than anything,” Steve said, plain. He looked back at Sam. “I’d live and die for you.”

Behind Sam, Bucky nodded; Natasha could only see him in profile, but his expression was so clearly agreement with Steve that she had to smile. “Let’s stick with living.” Sam smiled when Steve’s hand reached up, tentatively, to press flat against his chest. “Let’s go, Steve,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

The three men turned to go. Natasha raised an eyebrow, still sitting on the edge of the pool table. "Have fun," she called after them.

Steve turned. "Thanks," he said, breathless, "I'll—I'll call you. Soon."

Trying not to laugh, she nodded. Sam turned back. "Let one of us know," he requested, "when you get home. Won't you?"

She watched them go, then put away Steve's cue stick and her own. Wandering back the way she had come, she found herself outside once more, by the water. That green light flashed, a mile away or two or more, and she breathed in time with it. It came on—and went out. Came on—went out. Came on...

Behind her, the band played a brassy final note, loud and shining, chasing a shiver up her spine. The green light went out. Not waiting for it to come back on, Natasha turned, and went home.


End file.
